PS 

35ZI 




A;hV«M OiekxUAaQ . 




Class Tx^ 3S ^ 
BookjL 



Gopyright]^«_J-|i^ 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSrK 




THE SONG OF 
THE STONE WALL 





THE STORY pF MY LIFE 

OPTIMISM 

THE WORLD 1 LIVE IN 





THE SONG OF 
THE STONE WALL 



BY 



HELEN KELLER 



/e««Ws?!>5^ 




«^%*SV>^«!i!5<4i 



NEW YORK 

THE CENTURY CO. 

1910 





Copyright. 1909. 1910. 

By The century Co. 

Published October, 1910 



THE DE VINNE PRESS 




iGi.A273915 





DEDICATION 



WHEN I began "The Song of the Stone 
Wall," Dr. Edward Everett Hale was 
still among us, and it was my intention to dedi- 
cate the poem to him if it should be deemed 
worthy of publication. I fancied that he would 
like it ; for he loved the old walls and the tra- 
ditions that cling about them. 

As I tried to image the men who had built 
the walls long ago, it seemed to me that Dr. 
Hale was the living embodiment of whatever 
was heroic in the founders of New England. 
He was a great American. He was also a 
great Puritan. Was not the zeal of his ances- 
tors upon his lips, and their courage in his heart ? 
Had they not bequeathed to him their torch- 
like faith, their patient fervor of toil and their 
creed of equality ? 

But his bright spirit had inherited no trace of 
their harshness and gloom. The vsandows of 
his soul opened to the sunlight of a joyous faith. 
His optimism and genial humor inspired glad- 
ness and good sense in others. With an old 





to generous feelings. All men loved him be- 
cause he loved them. They knew that his heart 
was in their happiness, and that his humanity em- 
braced their sorrows. In him the weak found 
a friend, the unprotected, a champion. Though 
a herald and proclaimer of peace, he could fight 
stubbornly and passionately on the side of jus- 
tice. His was a lovable, uplifting greatness 
which drew all men near and ever nearer to 
God and to each other. Like his ancestors, 
he dreamed of a land of freedom founded on 
the love of God and the brotherhood of man^ 
a land where each man shall achieve his share 
of happiness and learn the work of manhood — 
to rule himself and "lend a hand." 

Thoughts like these were often in my mind 
as the poem grew and took form. It is fitting, 
therefore, that I should dedicate it to him, and 
in so doing I give expression to the love and 
reverence which I have felt for him ever since 
he called me his little cousin, more than twenty 
years ago. 

Helen Keller 

Wrentham, Massachusetts, 
January, 1910. 





THE SONG OF 
THE STONE WALL 




THE SONG OF 
THE STONE WALL 



Come walk with me, and I will tell 
What I have read in this scroll of stone; 
1 will spell out this writing on hill and meadow. 
It is a chronicle wrought by praying workmen, 
The forefathers of our nation — 
Leagues upon leagues of sealed history await- 
ing an interpreter. 
This is New England's tapestry of stone 






At the core of the ages 

As the prophecies of old at the heart of God's 

Word. 
The walls have many things to tell me, 
And the days are long. I come and listen: 
My hand is upon the stones, and the tale I 

fain would hear 
Is of the men who built the walls, 
And of the God who made the stones and 

the workers. 




I plunge and stumble over the fallen stones; 



I follow the windings of the wall 

Over the heaving hill, down by the meadow- 
brook, 

Beyond the scented fields, by the marsh where 
rushes grow. 

On I trudge through pine woods fragrant and 



coo 



And emerge amid clustered pools and by 
rolling acres of rye. 





Tumbled about by frost and storm, 

Shaped and polished by ice and rain and sun; 

Some flattened, grooved, and chiseled 

By the inscrutable sculpture of the weather; 

Some with clefts and rough edges harsh to the 

touch. 
Gracious Time has glorified the wall 
And covered the historian stones with a 

mantle of green. 





Vanish and reappear, linger and sleep, 
Conquer with radiance the obdurate angles, 
Filter between the naked rents and wind- 
bleached jags. 



I understand the triumph and the truth 
Wrought into these walls of rugged stone. 
They are a miracle of patient hands, 
They are a victory of suffering, a paean of 
pain; 





Are in the mute, moss-covered stones; 



They are eloquent to my hands. 

O beautiful, blind stones, inarticulate and 

dumb! 
In the deep gloom of their hearts there is a 

gleam 
Of the primeval sun which looked upon them 
When they were begotten. 
So in the heart of man shines forever 



A beam from the everlasting sun of God 






unresponsive ar 
Yet in them divine things lie concealed; 
I hear their imprisoned chant: — 



" We are fragments of the universe, 
Chips of the rock whereon God laid the 

foundation of the world : 
Out of immemorial chaos He wrought us. 
Out of the sun, out of the tempest, out of the 

travail of the earth we grew. 
We are wonderfully mingled of life and death; 






tiny forms. 
We are manifestations of the Might 
That rears the granite hills unto the clouds 
And sows the tropic seas wdth coral isles. 
We are shot through and through with hidden 

color; 
A thousand hues are blended in our gray 

substance. 
Sapphire, turquoise, ruby, opal, 
Emerald, diamond, amethyst, are our sisters 

from the beginning. 





Copper and silver and gold. 

We are the dust of continents past and to come, 

We are a deathless frieze carved with man's 

destiny; 
In us is the record sibylline of far events. 
We are as old as the world, our birth was 

before the hills. 
We are the cup that holds the sea 
And the framework of the peak that parts the 

sky. 






When Chaos shall again return, 

And endless Night shall spread her wings 

upon a ruined world, 
We alone shall stand up from the shattered earth, 
Indestructible, invincible witnesses of God's 

eternal purpose." 

In reflective mood by the wall I wander; 
The hoary stones have set my heart astir; 
My thoughts take shape and move beside me 
in the guise 



12 




olden days. 
One by one the melancholy phantoms go 

stepping from me, 
And I follow them in and out among the stones. 
I think of the days long gone, 
Flown like birds beyond the ramparts of the 



wor 



Id. 



The patient, sturdy men who piled the stones 
Have vanished, like the days, beyond the 
bounds 






mortal 
From their humble, steadfast lives has sprung 

the greatness of my nation. 
I am bone of their bone, breath of their 

breath. 
Their courage is in my soul. 
The wall is an Iliad of granite : it chants to me 
Of pilgrims of the perilous deep. 
Of fearless journeyings and old forgotten 

things. 
The blood of grim ancestors warrns the fingers 



16 




That trace the letters of their story ; 

My pulses beat in unison with pulses that are 

stilled; 
The fire of their zeal inspires me 
In my struggle with darkness and pain. 
These embossed books, unobliterated by the 

tears and laughter of Time, 
Are signed with the vital hands of undaunted 

men. 
I love these monoliths, so crudely imprinted 
With their stalwart, cleanly, frugal lives. 





My friend the elm, urnlike, lithesome, tall. 
Far above the reach of my exploring fingers 
Birds are singing and winging joyously 
Through leafy billows of green. 
The elm-tree's song is wondrous sweet ; 
The words are the ancientest language of trees — 
They tell how earth and air and light 
Are wrought anew to beauty and to f ruitfulness. 
I feel the glad stirrings under her rough bark ; 






J sap mounts up t 
Her great limbs thrill beneath the wand of 
spring. 

This wall was builded in our fathers* 
days — 
Valorous days when life was lusty and the 



land 



was new. 



Resemble the walls the builders, buffeted, 



stern, and worn. 



To us they left the law, 




m 




And the wall is the bond they gave the nation 
At its birth of courage and unflinching faith. 
Before the epic here inscribed began, 
They wrote their course upon a trackless sea. 
O, tiny craft, bearing a nation's seed! 
Frail shallop, quick with unborn states! 
Autumn was mellow in the fatherland when 

they set sail. 
And winter deepened as they neared the West. 
Out of the desert sea they came at last, 





O, first gray dawn that filtered through the 

dark! 
Bleak, glorious birth-hour of our northern 

states ! 
They stood upon the shore like new created 

men; 
On barren solitudes of sand they stood, 
The conquered sea behind, the unconquered 

wilderness before. 





And some for heartsick longing and the pang 
Of homes remembered and souls torn asunder. 
That spring the new-plowed field for bread of 

life 
Bordered the new-dug acre marked for death; 
Beside the springing corn they laid in the 

sweet, dark earth 
The young man, strong and free, the maiden, 

fair and trustful. 
The little child, and the uncomplaining mother. 





Where I, the child of life that lived that spring, 



Drink in the fragrances of the young year, 
The field-wall meets one grimly squared and 

stredght. 
Beyond it rise the old tombs, gray and restful, 
And the upright slates record the generations. 
Stiffly aslant before the northern blasts. 
Like the steadfast, angular beliefs 
Of those whom they commemorate, the head- 

stones stand, 





Cemented deep with moss and invisible roots. 
The rude inscriptions charged with faith and 

love, 
Graceless as Death himself, yet sweet as 

Death, 
Are half erased by the impartial storms. 
As children lisping words which move to 

laughter 
Are themselves poems of unconscious melody. 
So the old gravestones with their crabbed 

muse 



26 




Their groping love that had no gift of song. 
But all the broken tragedy of life 
And all the yearning mystery of death 
Are celebrated in sweet epitaphs of vines and 



vio 



lets. 



Close by the wall a peristyle of pines 
Sings requiems to all the dead that sleep. 



Beyond the village churchyard, still and 






The wall runs down in crumbling cadence 

Beside the brook which plays 

Through the land like a silver harp. 

A wind of ancient romance blows across the 

field, 
A sweet disturbance thrills the air; 
The silken skirts of Spring go rustling by, 
And the earth is astir with joy. 
Up the hill, romping and shaking their golden 

heads, 



28 





From ecstasy to ecstasy the year mounts 

upward. 
Up from the south come the odor-laden 

winds, 
Angels and ministers of life, 
Dropping seeds of fruitfulness 
Into the bosoms of flowers. 
Elusive, alluring secrets hide in wood and 



hed; 



ge 



Like the first thoughts of love 




The witchery of love is in rock and tree. 
Across the pasture, star-sown with daisies, 
I see a young girl — the spirit of spring she 



seems, 



Sister of the winds that run through the 
rippling daisies. 



Sweet and clear her voice calls father and 



brother, 



And one whose name her shy lips will not 



utter. 





heart 

And tells his name : the birches flutter by the 
wall; 

The wild cherry-tree shakes its plumy head 
And whispers his name; the maple 
Opens its rosy lips and murmurs his name; 
The marsh-marigold sends the rumor 
Down the winding stream, and the blue flag 
Spreads the gossip to the lilies in the lake: 
All Nature's eyes and tongues conspire 



31 





In the unfolding of the tale 

That Adam and Eve beneath the blossoming 

rose-tree 
Told each other in the Garden of Eden. 
Once more the wind blows from the walls, 
And I behold a fair young mother; 
She stands at the lilac-shaded door 
With her baby at her breast; 
She looks across the twilit fields and smiles 
And whispers to her child: "Thy father 

comes ! " 






Sorrow and toil and the wilderness thwarted 



their stout invasion; 
But with the ship that sailed again went no 

retreating soul! 
Stubborn, unvanquished, clinging to the skirts 

of Hope, 
They kept their narrow foothold on the land, 
And the ship sailed home for more. 
With yearlong striving they fought their way 

into the forest; 





miles from the sea. 
Slowly, slowly the wildemess yielded 
To smiling grass-plots and clearings of yellow 

corn ; 
And while the logs of their cabins were still 

moist 
With odorous sap, they set upon the hill 
The shrine of liberty for man's mind, 
And by it the shrine of liberty for man's soul, 
The school-house and the church. 




A shower of petals of light upon darkness. 
From Nature's brimming cup I drink a 

thousand scents; 
At noon the wizard sun stirs the hot soil 

under the pines. 
I take the top stone of the wall in my hands 
And the sun in my heart; 
I feel the rippling land extend to right and 

left, 






I clamber up the hill and beyond the grassy 



sweep; 
I encounter a chaos of tumbled rocks. 
Piles of shadow they seem, huddling close to 

the land. 
Here they are scattered like sheep, 
Or like great birds at rest. 
There a huge block juts from the giant wave 

of the hill. 





melting snow-drifts ; 
Gladly, with courage that flashed from their 

life-beaten souls. 
As the fire-sparks fly from the hammered stone, 
They hailed the fragrant arbutus ; 
Its sweetness trailed beside the path that they 

cut through the forest, 
And they gave it the name of their ship 

Mayflower. 
Beauty was at their feet, and their eyes 

beheld it ; 




But ever as they saw the budding spring, 
Ever as they cleared the stubborn field, 
Ever as they piled the heavy stones, 
In mystic visions they saw the eternal spring ; 
They raised their hardened hands above the 

earth, 
And beheld the walls that are not built of 

stone. 
The portals opened by angels whose garments 

are of light; 





And beyond the radiant walls of living stones 
They dreamed vast meadow^s and hills of 
fadeless green. 

In the old house across the road 
With w^eather-beaten front, like the furrow^ed 

face of an old man, 
The lights are out forever, the window^s are 

broken, 
And the oaken posts are warped ; 
The storms beat into the rooms as the passion 

of the world 




in tnem 




The psalm and the morning prayer are silent. 
But the walls remain visible witnesses of faith 
That knew no wavering or shadow of turning. 
They have withstood sun and northern blast, 
They have outlasted the unceasing strife 
Of forces leagued to tear them down. 
Under the stars and the clouds, under the 

summer sun, 
Beaten by rain and wind, covered with 



tend 



er vmes, 





granite race, 
The measure and translation of olden times. 



In the rough epic of their life, their toil, 
their creeds. 
Their psalms, their prayers, what stirring tales 
Of days that were their past had they to tell 
Their children to keep the new faith buming ? 
Tales of grandsires in the fatherland 
Whose faith was seven times tried in fiery 



rumaces, 





And stood with hands folded and eyes stead- 
fastly turned 
To the sky, and smiled upon the flames ; 
Of Latimer, and of Cranmer who for 
^ cowardice heroically atoned — 
Who thrust his right hand into the fire 
Because it had broken plight with his heart 
And written against the voice of his 

conviction. 
With such memories they exalted and 
cherished 





And ours are wrung with doubt and self 



distrust ! 



I am kneeling on the odorous earth ; 
The sweet, shy feet of Spring come tripping 



o'er the land, 



Winter is fled to the hills, leaving snowy 



wreaths 



On apple-tree, meadow, and marsh. 



1 he walls are astir ; little waves of blue 



48 





We follow the winds and the snow 



Their heart is a cup of gold. 

Soft whispers of showers and flowers 

Are mingled in the spring song of the walls. 

Hark to the songs that go singing like the wind 

Through the chinks of the wall and thrill the 

heart 
And quicken it with passionate response! 
The walls sing the song of wild bird, the 

hoof-beat of deer, 





Crows are calling from the Druidical wood ; 



The morning mist still haunts the meadows 
Like the ghosts of the wall builders. 



As I listen, methinks I hear the bitter plaint 
Of the passing of a haughty race, 
The wronged, friendly, childlike, peaceable 
tribes, 



The swarthy archers of the wilderness, 





Who knew the haunts of bird and fish, 



The hidden virtue of herb and root ; 
All the travail of man and beast they knew — 
Birth and death, heat and cold, 
Hunger and thirst, love and hate ; 
For these are the unchanging things writ in the 
imperishable book of life 



That man suckled at the breast of woman 






In the dim sanctuary of the pines 
The winds murmur their mysteries through 

dusky aisles — 
Secrets of earth's renewal and the endless 

cycle of life. 
Living things are afoot among the grasses; 
The closed fingers of the ferns unfold, 
New bees explore new flowers, and the brook 
Pours virgin waters from the rushing founts of 

May. 
In the old walls there are sinister voices — 



52 




Helpless against her grim, sin-darkened judges 
Terror blanches her lips and makes her 



conf 



ess 



Bonds with demons that her heart knows not. 
Satan sits by the judgment-seat and laughs. 
The gray walls, broken, weatherworn oracles. 
Sing that she was once a girl of love and 
laughter, 






Caresses in her eyes, who spent her days 

In weaving warmth to keep her brood against 

the winter cold. 
And in her tongue was the law of kindness ; 
For her God was the Lord Jehovah. 
Enemies uprose and swore her accursed, 
Laid at her door the writhing forms of 

little children, 
And she could but answer : " The Evil One 
Torments them in my shape." 





church 
And heard the gates of God's house closed 

against her. 
Oh, shuddering the silence of the throng, 
And fearful the words spoken from the 

judgment-seat ! 
She raised her white head and clasped her 

wrinkled hands : 
" Pity me, Lord, pity my anguish ! 
Nor, since Thou art a just and terrible God, 



57 





Forget to visit thy wrath upon these people ; 
For they have sworn away the life of Thy 

servant 
Who hath lived long in the land keeping Thy 

commandments. 
I am old, Lord, and betrayed ; 
By neighbor and kin am I betrayed ; 
A Judas kiss hath marked me for a witch. 
Possessed of a devil ? Here be a legion of devils ! 
Smite them, O God, yea, utterly destroy them 

that persecute the innocent." 





But still they suffered her to die. 
Through the tragic, guilty walls I hear the 

sighs 
Of desolate women and penitent, remorseful 

men. 

Sing of happier themes, O many-voiced epic. 
Sing how the ages, like thrifty husbandmen, 
winnow the creeds of men. 





Sing of the Puritan's nobler nature, 
Fathomless as the forests he felled, 
Irresistible as the winds that blow. 
His trenchant conviction was but the somber 

bulwark 
Which guarded his pure ideal. 
Resolute by the communion board he stood, 
And after solemn prayer solemnly cancelled 
And abolished the divine right of kings 
And declared the holy rights of man. 





Prophet and toiler, yearning for other worlds, 

yet wise in this ; 
Scornful of earthly empire and brooding on 

death. 
Yet wresting life out of the wilderness 
And laying stone on stone the foundation of a 

temporal state! 
I see him standing at his cabin-door at eventide 
With dreaming, fearless eyes gazing at sunset 

hills; 
In his prophetic sight Liberty, like a bride. 





Even as he saw the citadel of Heaven, 



He beheld an earthly state divinely fair and just. 
Mystic and statesman, maker of homes, 
Strengthened by the primal law of toil, 
And schooled by monarch-made injustices, 
He carried the covenant of liberty with fire 



and sword, 



And laid a rich state on frugality ! 
Many republics have sprung into being. 





reason ; 



All, all have fallen in a single night ; 

But to the wise, fire-hardened Puritemi 

Democracy was not a blaze of glory 

To crackle for an hour and be quenched out 

By the first gust that blows across the world. 

I see him standing at his cabin-door. 

And all his dreams are true as when he 

dreamed them ; 
But only shall they be fulfilled if we 






Are brave to dare a wilderness of wrong ; 



So long shall Nature nourish us and Spring 

Throw riches in the lap of man 

As we beget no wasteful, weak-handed 

generations, 
But bend us to the fruitful earth in toil. 
Beyond the wall a new-plowed field lies 

steaming in the sun, 
And down the road a merry group of children 
Run toward the village school. 



66 





Rises the beat and tumult of the struggle for 

freedom. 
Sacred, blood-stained walls, your peaceful 

front 
Sheltered the fateful fires of Lexington ; 
Builded to fence green fields and keep the 

herds at pasture, 
Ye became the frowning breastworks of stem 

battle ; 
Lowly boundaries of the freeman's farm. 






And still ye cross the centuries 
Between the age of monarchs and the age 
When farmers in their fields are kings. 
From the Revolution the young Republic 

emerged, 
She mounted up as on the wings of the eagle, 
She ran and was not weary, and all the 

children of the world 
Joined her and followed her shining path. 
But ever as she ran, above her lifted head 




Hark ! In the walls, amid voices of prayer 



and of triumph, 
I hear the clank of manacles and the ominous 

mutterings of bondmen ! 
At Gettysburg, our Golgotha, the sons of the 



fath 



ers 



Poured their blood to wash out a nation's 

shame. 
Cleansed by tribulation and atonement. 
The broken nation rose from her knees. 




again 
Upon the open road to ideal democracy. 



Sing, walls, in lightning words that shall 
cause the world to vibrate. 
Of the democracy to come. 
Of the swift, teeming, confident thing ! 
We are part of it^ — the wonder and the 
terror and the glory ! 



Fearless we rush forward to meet the years, 





The years that come fl)ang toward us 
With wings outspread, agleam on the horizon 
of time ! 



O eloquent, sane walls, instinct with a 
new faith. 
Ye are barbarous, incongruous, but great with 

the greatness of reality. 
Walls wrought in unfaltering effort. 
Sing of our prosperity, the joyous harvest 
Of the labor of lusty toilers. 






" Ye are titans of the forest, but we are 

stronger ; 
Ye are strong with the strength of mighty 

winds, 
But we are strong with the unconquerable 

strength of souls ! " 
Still the young race, unassailable, inviolate, 
Shakes the solitudes with the strokes of 

creation ; 






Doubly strong we renew the valorous days, 

And like a measureless sea we overflow 

The fresh green, benevolent West, 

The buoyant, fruitful West that dares and sings ! 

Pure, dew-dripping walls that guard 

The quiet, lovable, fertile fields, 

Sing praises to Him who from the mossy 

rocks 
Can bid the fountains leap in thirsty lands. 
I walk beside the stones through the young 

grain. 





The wall contests the onward march of the 

wheat ; 
But the wheat is charged with the life of the 

world; 
Its force is irresistible; onward it sweeps, 
An engulfing tide, over all the land. 
Till hill and valley, field and plain 
Are flooded with its green felicity ! 
Out of the moist earth it has sprung ; 





In the gracious amplitudes of her bosom it 

was nurtured, 
And in it is wrought the miracle of life. 

Sing, prophetic, mystic walls, of the dreams 

of the builders ; 
Sing in thundering tones that shall thrill us 
To try our dull discontent, our barren wisdom 
Against their propagating, unquenchable, 

questionless visions. 
Sing in renerving refrain of the resolute men, 






Who made a breach in the wall of darkness 



And let the hosts of liberty march through. 



Calm, eternal walls, tranquil, mature, 
Which old voices, old songs, old kisses cover, 
As mosses and lichens cover your ancient 



stones, 



Teach me the secret of your serene repose ; 
Tell of the greater things to be, 




And law and right are one. 

Sing that the Lord cometh, the Lord cometh, 

The fountain-head and spring of life ! 

Sing, steady, exultant walls, in strains hallowed 

and touched with fire. 
Sing that the Lord shall build us all together, 
As living stones build us, cemented together. 
May He who knoweth every pleasant thing 
That our sires forewent to teach the peoples 

law and truth. 




consecrated hands. 



Grant that we remain liberty-loving, sub- 
stantial, elemental, 



And that faith, the rock not fashioned of 



human hands, 



Be the stability of our triumphant, toiling days. 



OCT 27 1910 





One copy del. to Cat. Div. 




